Highly Unsuitable Girl

by Carolyn McCrae

  She wasn’t proud of herself and she didn’t think they would be either.

  Chapter 10: Successes

  Suburban London, 1976-1992

  Resentment was an unfamiliar emotion for Anya. She had been used to feeling anger, exasperation and irritation in her years with Geoff, but resentment, persistent, all-consuming resentment, was something she did not know how to deal with.

  Sunday 25th July 1976

  Yesterday Fiona became Mrs Geoffrey Philips Junior the Second. This morning she’ll be sitting in my garden. I worked hard clearing the channel between the ponds, creating a small waterfall which would feel so cool in this heat. Geoff will be sitting with her, listening to that waterfall, drinking wine from my fridge, drinking wine from a glass I used to drink from, held in a hand wearing my ring. Oh shut up Anya.

  I liked the cottage. It had a garden, though nothing like as large as the one that is now Fiona’s, and it had lovely views across the fields to the Downs. I could watch the sun rising and setting from that garden. I’d sit there thinking that things couldn’t really be that bad if the world could look that beautiful. I’d hoped to be there for longer than six months but it wasn’t to be. In the settlement G had to give me a lump sum and a small amount every month for five years or until I remarry (if sooner). Remarry? I doubt it. The only sensible thing to do was to buy somewhere and the cottage was not for sale so I ended up here. This miserable flat above a shop in a grotty parade of shops in the centre of what used to be a village but is now simply a bedroom for London was the only place I could afford to buy outright. Five grand doesn’t go far especially as I didn’t want a mortgage even if there’d been anyone stupid enough to have given one to an unemployed (unemployable) single woman. But this flat is SO hot and SO depressing!

  I’ve done a lot of thinking since I’ve been on my own. I’m trying to write but getting stuff anywhere near a publisher is horribly difficult. All those rejections are bloody depressing too. I’m beginning to realise I was in cloud cuckoo land thinking I could make any sort of living by writing. Perhaps it would have been different if I’d done it straight after University. Good degree. Good brain. Good prospects and look at me now! If I could go back to 1971 and have those years again I’d do things completely different. I’d have been an academic, I’d have a career, I would not allow myself to be seduced by Geoff and his middle-classiness. But then I’d be the same person so I’d make exactly the same mistakes again.

  I’ve a horrible feeling I’ll be writing a lot in my diary in the next few months. It’s going to be so miserable. No garden, not even a balcony. No view, not even the sky unless I crook my neck. But I will get some decent furniture and I’ll paint the walls and it’ll be fine. It’ll just take time to get used to it all.

  Anya put her pen down and stared out of the window at a very different view from the ones she has been used to. Fiona would be in her garden, enjoying the sounds of her waterfall and the cool of the green shrubs she had planted. Anya had never talked to Geoff’s new wife but ever since their first night together Fiona had been in the background. Just by waiting and being middle class Fiona had won.

  Anya suspected Geoff’s second marriage would be blighted, as his first had been, by his mother. Now Kathleen had established that she could dictate the direction of her son’s life she would do so again if ever Fiona should step off the narrow path of Kathleen’s expectations. Anya wondered why Fiona was marrying a man she had never shown any signs of caring for and immediately answered her own question: security, respectability and because their families expected it. They were the reasons Margaret had married Tim and Anya suspected the two marriages would be about as successful as the other.

  I’ve got to get a job. Sitting in this bloody oven of a flat writing stuff nobody will publish is driving me to distraction. I look back at what I’ve written and I can’t find one that might be worth publishing. Words used to come so easily, now I can hardly string two intelligent ones together. I’ve got to get some money so I’d better get a job. What? Work on CV. Focus on something then go for it. What though? I should have done a CertEd and then at least I could get a job teaching though I’d be crap at that too.

  She had chosen this flat, on the second floor above a rather run down looking estate agent in a small parade of shops, because the area had once been a village and, though it had been overrun by 1930s suburban housing, it still had a heart. It depressed her that all six shops in her block had two flats above and they were all identical to hers; eleven other flats occupied by people she would probably never talk to.

  How she hated this place.

  How she resented Fiona for being in hers.

  Thursday 29th July 1976

  Drove to S and picked up the local paper. G & F married in a church, I suppose because his first wedding was in a register office, it didn’t count. There was a picture. Fiona wore white. White! Geoff looked awkward in his morning suit. To all intents and purposes it’s a first marriage. I’ve been whitewashed out of history.

  Anya carefully cut out the report and stuck it in her diary.

  The marriage took place at St Luke’s between Fiona Joan, beloved only daughter of Mr and Mrs Richard Shepherd and Geoffrey Ian only son of the late Mr Geoffrey Philips and Mrs Kathleen Philips. The bride, given away by her proud father, wore a traditional dress trimmed with white lace. The bride was attended by Mrs Tim Cross, sister of the bridegroom and Miss Margaret Cross, niece of the bridegroom. The best man was Mr Tim Cross. The reception was held at the Town Golf Club.

  So Kathleen had taken over the wedding completely. And the reception at the Golf Club! Did Geoff remember Tim’s reception? Did Fiona? Somehow I hope they did.

  Anya looked carefully at the photograph. Geoff looked old, he was 26 but he was going bald and from the unflattering angle of the photograph he looked middle aged, he could almost have been the bride’s father rather than the groom. Fiona was staring expressionless into the middle distance, almost as if she were looking regretfully at someone in the crowd of guests behind the photographer. Neither looked particularly happy. Kathleen, on the other hand, was smiling broadly. This was the wedding photograph she had always envisaged for her son. The wedding was the most important thing to Kathleen, she didn’t care a fig about the marriage, Anya thought, as long as it produced a son.

  “Move on. Put it behind you.” She told herself as she closed her diary. But even as she spoke out loud to herself she knew she would never be able to do that. She had tried to persuade herself that getting their local paper every week so she could keep tabs on the Crosses and the Philipses was the best way to plan her revenge. But she knew it was because she couldn’t bear to let them go.

  Thursday 26th August very very late, probably Friday 27th already

  I woke up thinking about money. £100 a month from G for five years or until I remarry is enough to pay the bills but not enough to do anything with. I’ve really got to get up off my lazy bottom and earn some. It’s nine months since I left and I’m no nearer finding anything to do with my life.

  On my walk this morning I was looking for inspiration. Each building offered an opportunity but nothing seemed vaguely interesting. I can’t see myself working in the library or serving in a shop or serving behind the bar of the pub or tea in the tea shop. I could do any of those things, it’s what I would have been doing if Dot hadn’t intervened (interfered?) in my life but why should I? I can’t have completely forgotten how to use my brain just because I haven’t been expected to for years.

  It was when I got back and was opening the front door that I realised, for all my qualifications, I really was quite stupid. I had never bothered to even look in the window of the estate agent by my front door. This morning I peered in through the glass door at a small room with two wooden desks and three four-drawer filing cabinets. I could make out a map on the wall with pins in. They must be the properties they had for sale. Everything was neat and tidy but it didn’t have the look of a hive of activity. Perhaps th
is is something I can do. I’d have a lot to learn but it might be interesting. I ran up the stairs, rifled through the pile of newspapers and I’ve just spent the day and half the night reading everything I could find about the property market and making out my CV.

  The next morning, dressed in her smartest blue suit, Anya walked into March and March Estate Agents.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?” A lady who looked to be approaching retirement stood up from behind one of the brown desks.

  “Is there a manager? I’m not here to look for a house, I was wondering if there might be a job available.”

  Anya found it difficult to read the woman’s reaction, it seemed as if she was almost excited.

  “I’ll see if Mr March is free.”

  Anya thought that a good sign, Mr March must be one of the partners.

  “Come through Miss …?” The woman paused, inviting Anya to complete the sentence.

  “Cave, Anya Cave.”

  Anya was shown into a small, tidy office and was surprised at how young the man who stood with out-stretched hand was, and how good looking.

  “Peter March.” He held his hand out towards Anya. She took it and their first touch was a firm, business-like handshake.

  “Anya Cave.” She repeated her name. A trick, perhaps, but she felt it important her name registered.

  “Do sit down Anya Cave. I understand you are looking for a job.”

  She immediately liked the humour in his voice and the gentleness in his eyes.

  “Not just a job, a career.” Anya thought this was a good answer. It implied commitment and ambition.

  “Have you a CV?” He seemed uncertain of himself, as if interviewing her made him uncomfortable.

  Anya pulled out a carefully type-written piece of paper.

  He smiled as he took it from her. Quite an attractive smile she thought.

  “I see why you are looking for work. I suppose all divorces are painful so I won’t ask you about that, and I won’t ask you about children, in fact I haven’t a clue what to ask you. I’m hopeless at interviews. Jack always did this sort of thing.”

  “Jack?”

  “My brother. There really were two Marches in ‘March and March’. Until a few months ago when Jack …”

  He hesitated and his expression changed quickly to one of such misery that Anya almost went round to his side of the desk to put comforting arms around him. “My brother died quite recently. So it’s just me now but I just haven’t been able to bring myself to change the name of the business.” He had pulled himself together.

  “I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “No I’m the one who should apologise. Very unprofessional.” He concentrated on the paper in his hands.

  “First Class degree in History and a BPhil. Very impressive.”

  She took her cue from him and became business like. “But not very useful in getting any work outside teaching and I don’t think I’d be very good at that.”

  “But no doubt the course was interesting.”

  “I enjoyed my time at university.” Anya was pleased with her suitably ambiguous response.

  He carried on reading. Anya thought he was trying to avoid catching her eye, putting off a time when he would have to ask her another question.

  “Tell me more about the business.” She said, hoping that talking about something he knew so well would help him feel less uncomfortable.

  He looked at her with relief. She watched his face as he talked, it showed everything he felt. She wondered how this patently honest man could be a successful estate agent. “My father started it in the 30s, about the same age I am now, when all the woods were being cleared and the fields around the old village were being covered with rows and rows of houses. Stella, she showed you in, has worked here pretty much since the beginning. She knows everything there is to know about renting and selling houses in the area. She knows all the solicitors and knows how to get them to work at the speed our clients require, that’s a very important skill but she’s getting on a bit now and wants to retire. George, he’s out at the moment, is getting on too but neither of them will abandon me until I’ve got things a bit more settled. Jack‘s death,” Anya noticed how he spoke the words very deliberately, “Jack’s death rather disturbed their plans.”

  “I’ve no qualifications in the business.” Anya admitted when she realised Peter had no more to say. “Would I need to study? Take exams? That is if you gave me a job. I don’t think I’m secretarial or Personal Assistant material. I’d want to do something more substantial.”

  “There’s no need for qualifications to sell houses. I have none. You just need the personality to persuade people who want to sell their house that we can do the best job. Valuation is easy around here, most of the houses are identical. It’s just personality. Some intelligence helps of course, and the ability to explain things to people, they can tell if you are pulling the wool over their eyes about anything. I know I shouldn’t say it in these days of women’s lib but being attractive, intelligent and female would do no harm whatsoever to your chances of success.”

  “Years ago that would probably have offended me but not now. I need something interesting to do. I’ve too many other things to worry about to question why I was given a job or why I was good at it.” She tried to make light of it but the words were so obviously the truth that there were a few moments of silence during which Peter turned his attention to the CV again.

  “You say here you do some writing?”

  “Only short stories, articles for magazines and local newspapers, that sort of thing. I’ve never managed to get it to take off.”

  “But it shows you don’t sit down and do nothing. Lots of people would do nothing if given half a chance, I don’t think you’re that sort of person.”

  “I don’t think I am either.”

  “Well would you like to start on Monday? The salary won’t be much I’m afraid but you’ll get a good commission from any properties that you get on our books that sell and an even better commission if you do the selling. Stella and George will show you the ropes. I really think this might work. Mrs Cave.”

  “Miss. Cave is my maiden name, but please do call me Anya.”

  They both stood up to shake hands.

  “I really think this will work Anya.”

  “I hope so Peter.”

  “It was a car crash.” George explained to Anya as they had a drink in the pub around the corner to celebrate the end of her first week. “He was driving too fast. He always drove too fast.”

  “You sound as if you were very fond of him.”

  “I am, was. I’d known him since he was born. Everyone loved him, he was so outgoing, so generous, so like his father.”

  “Peter seems to find it difficult.”

  “He was always the quieter of the two. This really isn’t what he wants to do with his life. Truth be told he’d rather be anything other than be an estate agent, rather do anything than have his own business. He does his best but he really does need someone to give him help and encouragement, someone his own age. Oh dear, I’ve said too much.”

  “Not at all. I like to understand what’s behind people.”

  “You’ll be good for him, for the business.” George quickly corrected himself but Anya had heard enough from both him and from Stella to know that they were matchmaking.

  “Do you mind if I make a few changes to these details?” Anya asked Stella tentatively on the first day of her second week at March and March.

  “I know they do look rather dull, my dear, but there’s not much you can say about a three bedroomed semi, the same as all the other three bedroomed semis in the road which is the same as the next road of identical three bedroomed semis. They seem to sell, though, whatever we do.” Anya felt there was room for improvement even though she had been an estate agent for only five days and Stella had spent her entire working life in the business.

  When she was alone in the office Anya wo
rked her way through the filing cabinets, learning how the sales details were put together, what to look out for and how to work the wording as ambiguously as possible to hide any difficulties with a property. Her eye for detail led to corrections of errors which she pointed out with a tact she did not know she possessed. After shadowing Stella for a week, attending meetings, viewing houses, showing prospective buyers around properties, Anya felt this was something she could be interested in and do well. She spent Wednesday afternoons, when the agency was shut, having her hair styled and shopping for business suits and shoes with extremely high heels. She hadn’t realised how long it was since she had worried about her appearance.

  “Thank you for being on my side.” She said as the four of them shared the bottle of champagne she had bought to celebrate the end of her first month at March and March.

  Tuesday 30th August 1977

  One year at M & M and I reckon it’s been a pretty good one.

  I sold my ghastly flat last week for nearly twice what I paid for it. I know I made a few improvements but they were pretty insignificant and I’ve made over five grand profit. Peter said it was my money and I should invest it in another property as when we’re married we’ll live in his house. So I’m buying a two up two down terraced house handy for the station to let out and P said to keep the money for myself. He believes it’s important I have my own money. Jack’s wife never had any of her own and she would have divorced J if he hadn’t died. I’m not going to argue.

  Why am I marrying Peter? I suppose if I’m honest I’d say because he’s nothing like G. He’s happy to have a joint bank account, allow me to have my own money, his mother’s dead and he’s no good in bed. He says he loves me and I say I love him but I don’t think either of us is telling the truth. A marriage of convenience then, just like T & M and G & F.